


First Christmas

by i_penna



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21725872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_penna/pseuds/i_penna
Summary: Erik, Christine and Gustave share their first Christmas as a family.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	First Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to post this last night, but I'm not seeing it listed in my works. If it shows up again, I'm sorry.

(“Entry for Phantom’s Christmas One-Shot Challenge”)

First Christmas

The storm over, clouds cleared. The black night sky a riot of stars with the moon taking center stage, shining her light on the waves crashing against the sand dunes, now covered in a heavy blanket of snow. The glass panes of the French doors are frosted at the corners, each door displays a wreath tied with red and green bows. Pine cones interspersed in bowls of pomegranates, apples and pears are placed strategically on the piano and end tables.

A small fir, at least by the measure Gustave was accustomed to, fits into one corner of the sitting room. The paper chain he creates from colored paper cut into strips and flour paste Erik made up for him, lies in a pile around him and will become part of the decoration for the tree.

December was always the happiest month for him – a month long celebration – his birthday falling on the Feast of St. Nicholas and then Christmas. Maman always insisted that each occasion be celebrated individually so his bounty was threefold to that of the others in the family.

Pere would argue she was spoiling him, but on this point, she held firm. Maman seldom insisted on anything with Pere – she would simply say yes and bite her lower lip – at least during those arguments Gustave was aware of. Peace was maintained at all costs. Mostly, if Pere sounded angry, Maman would pull him into their private rooms – the heavy wooden door closed firmly behind them.

One time he tried to listen, but his nanny caught him and scolded him wagging a finger at his nose. “Your pere would bring out the strap if he caught you and I would find myself on the street.”

“Maman would not allow it.”

“Do not be so sure, little man,” she sniffed. “The both of you might join me.”

Phantasma and the current preparation for the month of celebration is quite the opposite – as is his life in general now. Everything here is active, loud and busy. Even study and lessons are full of excitement.

Papa Y is always teaching him something – music, history, anatomy, architecture…ventriloquism – as if he is trying to cram a lifetime of his own learning into Gustave’s young years. Not that he minds, Papa Y is larger than life – magical and mysterious, but so loving towards him – he wants nothing more than to please this strange man who is his “real” father, as Maman calls him.

But what that means, still finds him curious. Pere was the only father he knew. Then they came to America and all of a sudden, there was a “real” father to contend with. A man with a deformity so severe he felt the need to wear a mask covering half his face.

This explained, in part, Gustave’s own deformity – not visible to the view of others, thanks to his hair… and the meaning of “real.” When he first saw Papa Y’s face, he was stunned and not just a little frightened, but more surprised than anything. He understood only too well the disfigurement.

Hours were spent looking in the mirror at the scalp behind his right ear – the ear itself partially attached to his head as if melted. The rose-colored blemish under his chin – again, not in plain sight – was examined regularly to see if it had gotten larger or smaller.

His fingers were almost too long for his hands – although he was finally growing into them. Tante Louisa used the expression for all manner of his development from overly large shirts and shoes suddenly become too small to his two new front teeth, oversized compared to “baby teeth” not yet loose enough to pull and trade to the tooth fairy.

Of all the family left behind in Paris, she was the only one he missed. The others were rude or simply cold to Maman – barely tolerating either of them. “Not of noble blood” were the whispers he heard when listening from behind the heavy curtains in the library or under the dining table with the heavy tapestry cloth reaching to the floor.

_Bastard._

_Opera whore. Probably not Raoul’s – talk of that Opera Ghost kidnapping her. Married him for his money and title. He was warned. Insists the boy is his. Always was a fool. The girl bewitched him._

Bastard.

That was the word they used to talk about him. It sounded so ugly. When he looked it up in the dictionary, he was confused. Maman and Pere were married and he was their son. There was no one he could ask – his instincts warned him that Pere would bring out the strap for sure if he used the word. Not that he ever brought out a strap – it was enough that Estelle said he would. Pere actually paid little attention to him.

Still, when he overheard Mme. Giry tell Mlle. Meg he was a _bastard_ …that Mr. Y was his father, he wondered how could that be? He never even knew Mr. Y before they came to New York. Maman said he was an old friend. Pere would not speak of him at all. Whenever Maman said his name, Pere grew very angry – he would drink some whiskey. After a while, he would leave.

The whole business still confuses him – especially being told he has two fathers.

“Does the tree meet with your approval?” Erik asks, coming through the front door, carrying a large brown box.

“Oh, yes, it will be so pretty when we put all the decorations up.”

“That must be what these are,” Erik says, putting the box down next to Gustave, joining him on the floor.

“You do not have any ornaments?”

“No. This is the first time I have put up a tree,” Erik says. “Your mother ransacked the prop room and found some baubles she thought would be suitable. I understand that we are going to be stringing popcorn and cranberries at some point later today.”

“Do you like my chain?”

Erik lifts up one end, examining the handiwork. “It is coming along nicely – the glue appears to be working.”

“You will love the popcorn and cranberries. And cookies – are we to have cookies and candy canes?”

“I do believe she enlisted the aid of restaurant bakers to secure those treats.” Rummaging through the box, he brings out strings of gold fringe, some papier-mache stars and balls dusted with glitter. “For the moment, it is the two of us charged with challenging our creative gifts to adorn this humble evergreen.”

Gustave giggles.

“What do you find so amusing, young man?”

“You. You are funny. You make me laugh.”

“Indeed?”

“Like when you say that.” Pursing his lips and furrowing his brows, he strokes his chin, deepening his voice he imitates Erik. “Indeed? Harrumph, harrumph, harrumph.”

“Is that how I sound to you?”

“Indeed!” Pleased with his joke, the boy rolls onto his back, holding his sides from laughter.

Joining in the laughter, Erik tickles the boy, “Indeed. Indeed. Indeed.”

Exhausted from their wrestling, they lie on their backs, catching their breath.

“Papa Y, did you never have a tree?”

“You do ask the most challenging questions,” Erik says. “No, I never had a tree.”

“Even when you were little?”

“Especially when I was little – my father died when I was a baby and I suppose putting up decorations was more than my mother could deal with.”

“What about presents?”

“No presents,” Erik says. “I really was not aware of Christmas until I left home. I think my mother missed my father so much, the holidays made her extra sad.”

“I am sorry you did not have a father.” Gustave reaches over to take Erik’s hand.

Squeezing the boy’s fingers, Erik says, “Me, too.”

Sitting up, crossing his legs, Gustave says, “I am so lucky to have two fathers. Especially you.”

Rolling on his side, resting his head on his hand, Erik says, “It is my good fortune to have you for a son.”

“Papa Y?”

“Yes?” Taking in a deep breath, anticipating another _Gustave_ question.

“Why am I a bastard?”

Erik’s face flushes, the red rising from his neck up his cheeks. His nostrils flare and his eyes turn hard. “Who said you were a bastard?”

“I used to overhear people saying that was what I was…once I heard Mme. Giry say it to Mlle. Meg. I thought that was why she wanted to hurt me.”

Erik sits up, shifting his focus away from Gustave to the painful memory of the boy’s near death. “Meg was hurt and angry over things having nothing to do with you – I am to blame for her actions,” he says. “If it takes a lifetime, I vow I will make it up to you.” Shifting his eyes back to Gustave, he goes on, “As far as Mme. Giry – she was wrong.”

“But what does it mean?” Gustave tugs on Erik’s sleeve. “I want to know what it means. Why do I have two fathers? How can you be my father when Pere is my father? I do not understand.” The tears he has been holding back begin to flow.

Erik pulls the boy into his arms, rocking him gently, kissing the thick chestnut hair, so like his mother’s. He glances up to see Christine standing in the doorway, her brow furrowed, lips pursed.

“Tell him,” she mouths, pressing a finger to her lips before stepping back out of view.

Taking Gustave’s chin in his hand to face him, he says, “When your mother sang at the Palais Garnier, I was her teacher. I loved her very much and wanted her to stay with me, but she loved Raoul. That made me very angry and one night we three had a very bad argument. She convinced me to let her go, so I did.”

“But how does that make you my father? Why does that make me a bastard?”

“Christine, please come in here – I cannot do this,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Maman?”

Christine enters the room, setting down the bags she carries. Gathering her skirts around her, she joins them on the floor, first kissing Gustave on the cheek – wiping his eyes with her handkerchief. Kissing Erik in kind, she says, “This is not exactly what I expected to find when I asked you to begin decorating the tree.”

“Our son has a curious mind – we were talking about Christmas – I revealed this was my first Christmas and somehow we began talking about fathers. I told him mine passed away when I was a baby...”

“I want to know how I can have two fathers when Papa Y did not even have one,” Gustave interrupts. “I want to know why people call me a bastard.”

Erik’s eyes implore her to rescue him.

“I see.” Christine takes a deep breath. “When Papa Y told me I could leave to be with Pere, I left, but I missed Papa Y very much.” She rests her hand on Erik’s shoulder. “I went back to see him and we loved each other the way grown-ups do to make a baby. We made you.”

“So why were you with Pere?”

“I did not think I would be a good husband for your mother,” Erik says. “Raoul had a nice house and was a nobleman. He loved your mother…I thought he would take better care of her, so I left and came here to America.”

“I wish you had stayed.”

“Yes, I think all of us wish that had been the case,” Erik says.

“Pere believed you were his son until we came here.”

“No.” Gustave shakes his head. “No one did. Now I know why they called me bastard.”

“You did nothing wrong – it is wrong for anyone to call you names,” Erik says. “If anyone did something wrong it was me – never you.”

“Us,” Christine says, her look fierce. “We are both responsible.”

Gustave takes in the faces of his parents. Papa Y’s holds no expression. Maman’s look is soft with a forced smile. Each of them holds their breath, waiting for him to break the tension. “Okay,” he says, disengaging his hand from Erik so he can stand up.

“Okay?” Eriks says, looking at Christine, eyes wide. “That is all? Okay?”

With a shrug, she shakes her head.

“Yes, I just wanted to know,” Gustave answers, retrieving the bags Christine brought in. “Is this the popcorn, Maman?”

“Yes…and cranberries,” she replies. “There is a small box in one of the bags with needles and heavy thread.” Rising from the floor, she joins him in carrying the bags to the dining table.

Gustave pulls out a handful of popcorn from one of the bags and holds it out to Erik. “This is good. Have some.”

Untangling his legs, Erik struggles to his feet to join his family at the table, accepting the popcorn, tossing a few kernels into his mouth. “Excellent.” Bending over to kiss Christine on the cheek, he says, “Who said you could not cook.”

“No one here, I am sure,” she counters, making a moue.

“Not me,” giggles Gustave.

“Not me,” Erik agrees with a chuckle.

“Maman is the best cook ever.”

“She does make good popcorn.”

“Stop it,” Christine says, pulling another box from one of the bags. “I will not be mocked. Cookies – oatmeal with walnuts?”

“Uh oh,” Gustave and Erik say in unison.

“The baker made them.”

“Oh, boy,” Gustave says as he grabs one, handing another to Erik. Each of them takes a bite, nodding their approval to one another.

“I lied,” Christine says, bouncing up and down, clapping her hands. “I baked them myself.”

Father and son exchange sheepish grins as they swallow the treats.

“There, you see, everyone is able to learn.”

“Maman can cook popcorn and cookies. Yeah, Maman.”

“We shall never starve,” Erik adds.

“Oh shut up, both of you,” Christine says. “Let us get begin stringing or we shall be up all night pricking our fingers.”

“I think I rather like this holiday business – if only for the food and colorful decorations.”

“And I thought it was for the companionship,” Christine responds, standing behind Gustave, wrapping her arms around him, resting her chin on his head.

“Yes, Papa Y, what about the companionship?”

“Worth a lifetime of waiting.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.”


End file.
